Meltdown
by Starsky's Strut
Summary: Hutch is alone on a 3 day camping trip in the Mohave Desert. What could possibly go wrong?
1. Chapter 1

All usual disclaimers apply. I don't own the rights and this story is for entertainment only. Please excuse any errors; they are entirely mine. This story is loosely based on an episode of _Bonanza_ called "The Crucible".

I wrote –and completed- this story over a year ago for a S&H zine that never was produced. I hope you enjoy!

This story is dedicated to a very patient E-pony who is still waiting for me to finish "West". I am working on it, honest!

As always –a massive and heartfelt thanks to the Usual Suspects for their continual support. You guys are the best!

**Warnings:** This is a **DARK** story. Torture, suffering, profanity, content and some gross things. Please do not read this if you are sensitive.

Enough rambling, on with the story…

**Meltdown  
**By Starsky's Strut

"Starsky…" Hutch sighed gustily as he ran a frustrated hand through his hair, mussing the fine, sun-bleached, white-gold strands. "This was supposed to be _our_ vacation." His sulking partner's dark blue eyes met his own light blue ones, and the brunet's lower lip puckered out into an impressive pout.

Hutch steeled himself against it. "Starsk, that's not gonna work on me. _We_ –you and I – are going backpacking. I've been planning this trip for months." Hutch prepared himself for what he knew was coming next.

His curly haired partner lowered his head slightly and raised his eyebrows, giving Hutch his best sad puppy-dog look. "But Huuutch," Starsky whined. "Look at her… She wants me." The puppy look faded and was replaced by his "Lothario" look. "She wants me baaaad." The word _bad _was drawn out and whispered. The brunet waggled his eyebrows comically.

Hutch's chin dropped to his chest. He knew when he was beaten, and he was beaten right now. But he was no quitter; so he tried one last time, heaping the guilt on with each word. "Starsky, you know I've been planning this trip for months and months! And the moment we get close to the starting point, you find some chick to shack up with." He knew he was sounding whiny, but if it worked, it was worth it.

"Yeah, but what a chick! Did you see those –" Starsky made a motion with his hands. "And her –" He made another motion. "She's built like –" The brunet made a third descriptive move. "I mean, what's a guy supposed ta do, huh?"

Hutch shook his head, defeated. "Fine, I can't argue with –" He repeated all three motions.

"Precisely!" Starsky crowed, as he set off after his new temporary lady.

The blond snagged his friend's elbow and swung him back around, "Hey, wait a second. You gotta drop me off at Pointer Peak this morning. And since you're gonna have the car, you can pick me up there in three days." Hutch thrust his hand with three fingers raised into his partner's face and wiggled them. "Three days. Don't be late. Oh and I'm keeping the money."

"What?" Starsky's level of enthusiasm dropped a smidge. "But Hutch, you'll be camping. You won't need-"

Hutch interrupted. "I said I'm keeping the money. You've got the car; I've got the cash. It's a fair trade." The lanky blond inclined his head as he folded his arms over his chest.

"You're mean, d'ya know that?" Starsky looked away, appearing to think the words over before turning back towards his partner. "Okay, deal. But just to be fair, this backpacking in the desert was all your idea. I just wanted to spend time relaxing on the beach- maybe play a little volleyball, watch some suntanned tail and drink some beer. You thought of this trip all by yourself. You didn't bother to ask me until you'd already made the plans. You're closer to me than my brother is Hutch, but sometimes you can be so bossy. I let ya talk me inta comin' here, but now that I'm here, I don't wanna go. Sorry." The brunet ducked his head and looked away once more.

Starsky did look sorry and Hutch _hadn't _asked his friend what his plans were before springing this trip on him. He had just assumed Starsky would want to come along. Now, the more that he thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed. His city -born and raised friend wouldn't find the quiet solitude of a desert beautiful. Or comfortable. Or even remotely fun. Hutch knew he would return with his own internal batteries recharged and his mood on an upward swing, but his poor partner would return sunburned, wind- and sand-chafed and downright cranky.

Hutch hooked an arm over Starsky's shoulders. "Don't worry about it buddy. You're right; I didn't think. Just drop me off. I'll do my thing, and you do your new girlfriend and I'll see ya in three days." He was rewarded with a brilliant grin from his partner and a reciprocating arm flung over his shoulder, as well.

"Thanks, Hutch! I knew you'd see my side of it," the curly haired detective crowed.

"Yeah, but I'm still keeping the money." Hutch laughed as his friend gave him a playful shove, nearly pushing him off of the sidewalk. As they walked away, the duo took no notice of the two scruffy-looking men who were fiddling with a dirt bike in the shade of the lone tree growing next to the parking lot.

XXXX

The potbellied, standing man nudged his kneeling friend with the toe of his scuffed cowboy boot. "That blond guy's got some money. I'd like some money. How 'bout you?"

"I'd like some money too, 'specially when it's _easy_ money." The kneeling man wiped his greasy hands on a rag as he stood up, speculatively watching the blond and brunet make their way down the street to their car and a waiting female.

"A lone guy out in the desert… Tsk, tsk, tsk Don't he know all sorts of bad things could happen to 'im?" The potbellied man shook his head sadly.

The other man, the shorter and thinner of the two, chuckled, "I can think of two things that are gonna happen." He shared a sly grin with his friend.

XXXX

_Later that morning, Pointer Peak, Mohave Desert_

Hutch picked up his backpack and slung it over one shoulder.

Starsky reached out and assisted him in putting on the rest of the way. "Got everything ya need?"

"Yes, Mom." Hutch grinned as he secured the backpack's waist strap around his middle.

"Map?" The brunet inquired.

"Yep." The tall man waved the object in question in his partner's face before stuffing it into a pouch on the side of the pack.

"Food and plenty of water?" Starsky fiddled with a tie strap, obviously confused about what to do with it. He gave up and simply let it go.

"Yes, Mother." Hutch's grin widened, and he reached out to tuck the ever-loose end of Starsky's belt into a belt loop. "You can still come along if you're so worried, Starsk."

"I ain't _that _worried." The brunet leaned hipshot against the LTD, crossing his arms as he did so.

"You look worried. I'm a big boy. I'll be back here in three days." Hutch tapped his right index finger on the tip of his partner's nose. "Be here in three days and try to be on time, okay? Just this once." He flicked his partner's nose with the tip of his finger.

Starsky batted the finger away and gave Hutch an innocent "_who, me"_' gesture, placing a hand over his heart. His normally dark blue eyes were painted a bright blue under the glare of the morning sun. He was the perfect picture of innocence. "I'll be on time. Count on me. Have a safe trip. I'll be right here in three days. Scout's honor." He held up three fingers.

"You'd better be." Hutch cautioned with a big smile and a wave before he turned and headed out on the well-used trail. He turned back as a thought occurred to him "Hey! You were never a Boy Scout!"

Starsky threw his head back and laughed "I've been around you for so many years now, I figure as few things must have rubbed off on me by now."

"Starsk, I was a Sea Scout, not a Boy Scout." The blond corrected.

"Sea, Boy, what's the difference? They're both Scouts of some sort." The curly haired detective shrugged.

Hutch stopped and stared at his partner for several long seconds. 'Starsky logic' was a puzzle he could spend a lifetime trying to comprehend- not that he wanted to- besides, some things were best left a mystery. So he gave up with a chuckle as he shook his head and continued on his way.

Starsky waited until his friend was out of sight before climbing into the car and heading back to town - and his temporary girlfriend.

XXXX

_Mohave Desert _

Hutch hitched his backpack around, adjusting the fit a bit. He had already hiked five miles that morning and would have to start back soon or risk being late to Pointer Peak and worrying Starsky. That was provided good old Starsk remembered to pick him up tomorrow afternoon. His partner could be worse than a hound dog when it came to sniffing around women, losing all track of time and duty.

The tall detective shook his head. Not that he was a slouch himself when it came to picking up women, but damn if Starsky didn't just have to show up and they'd practically fall into his lap – like Sherry had. The partners had stopped into a local shop to get a spare pair of boot laces, when Sherry, the store clerk, had nearly fallen off of the stepstool she was using to help her change a burned-out light bulb. Starsky had caught her just as she lost her balance, and the rest was history. The pair had started making calf eyes at each other seconds later, and the next thing Hutch knew, he was on a solo journey in the Mohave Desert.

It hadn't turned out all that badly. He had marveled at the color changes in the desert during the sunrise and sunsets. The Joshua trees – which weren't really trees but a type of yucca plant – were interesting, and he had taken the time to draw several pictures of them and to snap plenty of photos, as well. If Starsky had been along, he would have been talking –or more likely- complaining nearly nonstop.

Hutch exhaled slowly, closing his eyes so he could concentrate on the scents of the desert. He could definitely see taking another trip like this one in the future – just nature and him - communing, as one. No hassles, no noise, no crime. A small, carefree smile played across his lips. He was suddenly very happy that he had slipped the money he had brought along into Starsky's pocket just before they parted ways. Now, they could both enjoy the things they liked best. He could shed the trappings of civilization and Starsk could indulge his newfound lady with all of those same trappings – and probably some hedonistic ones as well. Hutch chuckled as he started to walk along the animal trail he'd been following.

As the detective skirted a large rock formation, a potbellied man with a crew cut and a nose that looked like it had been broken several times, stepped out in front of him from behind a boulder. Hutch stopped walking. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and he sneaked a peek over his shoulder. Behind him was another man. This one was sporting long greasy blond hair, a heavily pox marked face and a crooked goatee. Hutch looked back at the first man. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, hand over your money." The first man snapped his fingers. "Quick, like a bunny."

"Hey, Kurt, you just rhymed," the man with the crooked goatee chuckled from behind Hutch.

"Sid! You just blabbed out my name, dip shit." The first man, Kurt, snarled.

Hutch warily kept an eye on the bickering pair as he slid one foot sideways, perhaps he could make an exit without having to fight them. He backed away slowly.

"Hold it right there, Blondie. We ain't done here yet."

Hutch stopped and turned partway around to stare at them. "Look, guys, I don't have any money on me. Let's just think about this for a moment. Why would I need money out here? I'm nowhere near any place I could spend it." He reasoned.

"We heard you tell your pal back in town that you where gonna hold onto the money. Now fork it over." Kurt thrust his hand out, palm up.

"Yeah, fork it over," Sid seconded.

"Do you have to repeat everything I say?" Kurt snapped at Sid.

The detective shook his head at the pair. "I don't have the money anymore. I gave it to my friend –" Hutch stopped talking when he heard the distinctive click of a hammer being cocked on a pistol. Knowing the wrong move could get him killed, he slowly edged his hands up and away from his sides.

"Sure ya don't," Sid gave a low, dirty laugh. "Do you believe him?"

"Nope I surely don't." Kurt chuckled. His voice became cold once more. "So, ya wanna do this the hard way, don'cha?"

"No I don't. I don't have the money on me," Hutch spoke the words carefully, knowing he had to make the men understand that he had nothing to offer them and that he was no threat, at least for now. He fully intended to go after them the minute he got a chance – provided they gave him one. Now that he thought about it, the pair looked vaguely familiar to him. "Didn't I see you two back in town?"

The two men exchanged a look and then Kurt spoke up, "Maybe."

Hutch felt the undercurrent passing between the two and understood things were about to go badly for him. Mentioning that he had seen them before had been a mistake, and all three men knew it. In an effort to stall for time and perhaps give himself a few seconds to come up with a plan, the big blond started to remove his backpack. He hoped this would do two things. One, it might help distract Kurt and Sid. Two, if he needed to move quickly, it would be a lot easier to do without a 50-pound pack weighing him down.

'What're ya doin'?" Sid took a step closer to the blond, waving the gun in his face.

"Taking off my backpack, what does it look like?" Hutch wanted to bite his tongue after the comment slipped out, but he quickly covered it up. "You wanted the money, right?" He thought he might be able to distract the pair with a couple of bucks and some credit cards. Even as he pulled the pack free, his mind was running full blast, trying to figure a way out of this mess while sustaining minimal damage to himself.

Kurt grunted and stepped back, while Sid hovered closely, looking keenly at the pack

Hutch kept watch on Sid with his peripheral vision. Kurt didn't seem to have a gun, or if he did, he hadn't pulled it yet. Hutch fiddled with the straps of the backpack, pretending he was nervous.

Eager for the money, Sid stepped closer. Hutch quickly calculated that the man was now within his striking range.

The detective went for Sid's gun hand, executing a swift karate chop to his wrist that made Sid drop the weapon. Hutch dove for the handgun, only to have a massive weight land on him, knocking all the breath out of him. He struggled for air as Sid quickly added his weight. With more than 400 pounds of human flesh on his back, Hutch couldn't budge. Further more, his lungs were being compressed and if this went on much longer, the blond knew he would suffocate. He dug madly for the gun that was only a hair's breath away from his questing fingertips.

Kurt, the bigger of the two men saw what he was doing and shifted slightly, hammering a few wicked elbow strikes to the back of the blond's head.

Hutch saw stars, but kept trying for the gun, the one equalizer in the unfair, no-holds-barred wrestling match in which he found himself.

"Sid, dammit! Git the hell off my back and git the gun!" Kurt grunted as he shifted his weight to again pound a fist into the blond's head.

Hutch felt the movement and squirmed, fighting for some air and to get out from under Kurt's bulk. The weight on his back lessened as Sid slid off. Hutch flung his head back, managing a solid head butt to Kurt's face.

"JERK!" Kurt bellowed in pain. He began raining blows on the blond's skull. "Teach you to hit me in the face!"

As Kurt angrily hammered at the downed man, Hutch's world turned a fuzzy red color, faded to a blurry gray, and then suddenly went black.

**TBC**


	2. Chapter 2

Hi everyone,

Thanks for the kind reviews and I hope you continue to enjoy this story.

**Warnings**: Bad things and language. If you are sensitive, please don't read this.

**Chapter 2**

Hutch came back to consciousness with the feeling of rough hands manhandling him, yanking his arms behind his back, and tying his hands tightly behind him. A blindfold was put over his eyes and tied tightly. His hair caught in the cloth as one of his captors knotted the rag behind his head, and several strands were ripped painfully from his scalp. "What the –!" A kick to the detective's gut stopped his question. "Uff!"

"Shut up pig." Kurt snarled.

The two men grunted as they lifted Hutch and heaved him upwards. They swung him back and forth a couple of times before tossing him.

Hutch landed with a bang in something metal. The air rushed out of his lungs in a painful surge, and he lay gasping and fighting to draw a breath. A moment later, he heard two doors slam and he knew he was going to be driven somewhere.

He felt the surface beneath him and figured it had to be a pickup truck bed. His guess was confirmed when an engine fired up and they were on their way. Since the two men had called him "pig," Hutch thought it was a safe bet to assume they must have found his wallet and badge. But, then, they also had to know that he didn't have more than twenty bucks on him, either.

It wasn't long before Hutch was choking on dust and being roughly bounced and tossed about without control. Since he didn't hear the whine of radials on pavement and because of the copious amount of dust in the air, the blond figured they still had to be off-road somewhere. With no way to brace himself, Hutch was pummeled mercilessly by every rut and bump along the way. Each bounce of the truck hammered his head and bound, aching body into the solid-metal bed. With every jolt, he soundly cursed Sir Isaac Newton and the Law of Gravity.

After what felt like forever, the truck ground to a halt. The vehicles doors slammed, signaling that the men had exited the truck. "What's goin' on?" Hutch groaned out the question.

"This is where you git off, pig."

There was the bang of the tailgate dropping. Rough hands grabbed the blond's bound ankles, pulled him out of the bed, and dropped him violently to the ground, adding to his already numerous bruises. Hutch's ankles were cut loose.

"That's enough Sid," Kurt instructed. "Don't wanna make this too easy for the little piggy."

Hutch lay still, fighting for air and inadvertently sucking in dust and sand with each breath. He coughed and hacked, trying to clear his airway enough to speak. He needed to try to reason with these two men, fearing they might be preparing to shoot him. He was startled and confused when he heard them walking away from him. "Wait! Where're you going?"

"Home - not that it's any of your business." Kurt said as he gave a dirty laugh. Sid joined in.

"You can't just leave me out here, tied up like this. I'll die!" Hutch hollered. He shifted around trying to get to his feet. A foot shoved him back down.

"Too bad we don't care." The bigger man chortled.

"Just watch us! Oh wait. Ya can't, 'cuz you're blindfolded." Sid cackled at his own sick joke and booted the blond in the stomach again.

The force of the blow pushed nearly every ounce of air out of Hutch's lungs. As he lay gasping, he heard the truck doors slam and the vehicle drive away. Giving a low groan and he turned onto his side, his lungs straining to collect air. Along with the oxygen his lungs craved, the blond inadvertently inhaled sand and grit. The combination went down hard and he could feel a series of coughs working its way up his throat. He knew it would hurt, and he was right.

The first cough made Hutch aware of the pain in his ribcage and stomach. The second heightened the pain in his head, and the third magnified every other ache in his body. But the coughing didn't stop there; the jag persisted until he nearly puked up his guts.

Spots floated before the blond's eyes -even though they were blindfolded. It was an odd sensation, to be sure. He tried to bury his head into the hot sand, figuring that if it fell off, at least it couldn't roll away from him. It would be easier to find, provided he wanted to find it. His head hurt badly enough that he contemplated not looking for the damn thing if it did manage to free itself. But fortunately for him -or maybe unfortunately- it stayed firmly attached to his neck.

Hutch slowly cataloged his pains. His ribs hurt, but none felt broken. He ran his tongue over his teeth -all were present and accounted for. He didn't seem to be bleeding anywhere. He just had a lot of general aches and pains, most of them currently residing in his head area.

The detective crawled around on his knees until he found a suitable rock, one with a bit of an edge. It took a while, but he was able to slowly saw through the rope binding his wrists. As soon as the last strands were cut, he reached up and yanked the blindfold off.

The desert sunlight was blindingly bright; Hutch closed his eyes again and buried his palms deep into his eye sockets. While waiting for the pain to recede, he felt his head for damage. He found several lumps of various sizes. A few were small and crusty with dried blood, but the majority were simply tender lumps. His right eye was partially swollen shut, but he could still see out of it.

After several long moments, Hutch carefully got to his feet and looked around. He wasn't where he had been before the fight. None of the landmarks were familiar now. It was still daylight; so that was something. He could easily tell east from west, and therefore, he could also figure out north and south. Simple directions were not the problem. Since he didn't know where he was, he didn't know which direction to go for help or even how far away anything was.

He looked about for his pack -not expecting to find it- but hoping to just the same, for it held his food, water, map and compass. However, it was nowhere to be found, which meant Kurt and Sid must still have his stuff. Hutch did see the truck's tracks in the sandy soil, though. At least, he could follow the tread marks left by the two bastards. The tracks should lead him to a road. And a road meant cars, and cars meant that he could get a lift back to town. So, now with a plan, Hutch set out to follow the trail left by his attackers.

An hour or so later, the wind picked up, and Hutch watched with growing despair as his trail out of the desert was slowly erased before him. He sped up, ignoring the aches in his head and ribs. Those were minor inconveniences compared to what would happen if he couldn't find his way out of the desert. Running did no good, the trail was wind-washed away.

Hutch stopped on a small rise to catch his breath. He leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees, gasping for air as he looked about for a trail of some sort. It was a misconception that deserts were lifeless, windswept sand dunes. There were plants, sparsely placed, but there nonetheless. Yet none that Hutch could see were of any benefit to him.

It was now mid-afternoon, and the sun beat mercilessly down on him. He wanted to open his shirt and roll up his long sleeves in an attempt to cool down, but he didn't. Fully knowing that the coverings were helping him hold onto some of his body's moisture, as well as keeping his skin from burning under the blazing sun. He could feel his ears, face and the backs of his hands were hot; the sun was grilling his exposed skin to a lobster red. The reflected glare off the sand and the hot sun above him were brutal.

Without any water, Hutch was feeling the ever-increasing pangs of dehydration. He wanted to stop and conserve his energy; yet his yearning for water was growing. He had kept his eyes open for barrel cacti and other water-retaining plants, but so far luck hadn't been with him.

The blond was not very familiar with camping in the desert or desert survival techniques. His assailants must have known exactly where to leave him, for he realized now that he had very little chance of finding his way out of there.

Hutch debated for a long time whether to stay put or to continue on in hope of finding help. Finally, he determined that since he wasn't anywhere near where he should be, any search and rescue parties that Starsky might send wouldn't even be close to his location. The only thing he could do was keep going.

The sun was beginning to make its descent when Hutch topped another rise and, to his amazement, spotted a camp. At first, he thought it might be a desert mirage, as he had been seeing them for the past hour or so. Then, he glimpsed a figure moving around the camp. He tried to call for help, but he was too parched. Hutch staggered down the slope, slipping and sliding his way into the small camp and startling the person. Panting, he fell to his knees, trying to catch his breath.

The surprised camper stared at Hutch for a bit, confusion growing on his face. He looked to be in his mid forties; his hair was black and was shot through with gray strands. "Can I help you?" the man asked when he found his voice.

The tall detective nodded wearily, "Wa-" he coughed; his parched tongue was not cooperating in getting the words out. He made another raspy attempt, "Water."

The man slapped himself on the forehead, "Right! Just a sec." He went under the awning and brought out a large canteen and handed it to the dehydrated detective. "Here," he cautioned. "Drink it slowly and not too much at first."

Hutch somehow managed to heed the man's advice, though he wanted to drink all the water down in one gulp. He forced himself to take slow sips of the warm, metallic liquid, which tasted like manna from heaven to the parched man.

Once he felt a little better, the blond got up off his knees out of the burning sand, walked under the awning, and sat down on a small, three-legged stool in the shade. "Thanks, mister. You just saved my life." He stuck out his hand to the camper.

The man gave a low laugh and flicked his fingers in a dismissive fashion, "Think nothing of it. You have to help people when they need it, right?" He grabbed Hutch's hand and gave it a firm shake. "My name is Peter, Peter Bench."

"Ken Hutchinson," Hutch rasped as he released the camper's hand. "Glad to meet you, Peter. Never been gladder to meet anyone in my life." The detective looked about the small campsite but didn't see anyone else around. "So, what are you doing out here all by yourself? Camping?"

Peter chuckled, "No, no, prospecting. Gold - that's what California's known for, bein' the Eureka State and all that." He waved his hand to encompass the desolate slice of the desert surrounding them. "This here parcel of land sure ain't much to look at, but it's all mine." He mopped at his sweaty brow with a dirty rag. "It's my pot of gold. I found the pot – now I just gotta find the gold." The prospector gave a self deprecating wink as he nodded his head in the direction of a jagged hole in the side of the rocky hillock. "It's in there. I can feel it. I'm closer now than I've ever been." His gray eyes locked onto the opening in the ground. "It's right in there..." his voice trailed off.

The blond's attention wandered like a free-range chicken between his thirst and listening to the man ramble on about his gold. He took another swig of warm, tinny tasting water, grateful his burning thirst was finally getting quenched. Now he was becoming more aware of the heat of the sunburn he had gotten as he had wandered in the desert. Hearing a break in his companion's monolog, Hutch politely asked, "So, how did you end up way out here?"

"I moved out here after my wife and I –" Peter's gray eyes got a distant look in them as he continued to speak. "We broke up." He finished lamely. "She didn't understand that I just wanted a change. I was sick of putting on a suit everyday and going to work. I was driving over an hour a day just to get there on time. And coming home was worse; it sometimes took up to two hours. But I did it – day in, day out for 21 years." The prospector paused for a breath. "Then, one day this guy in our department just snapped. Craig pulled out a gun and put a slug in his brainpan. Right there in front of everybody in the cafeteria. Bam! But just before he did it, I asked him, 'Why? Why do you want to kill yourself?' And do you know what Craig said?"

Hutch shook his head no.

"'Because people are bastards, if you push someone hard enough, they'll crack. You push anyone hard enough -and they'll kill- just like this.' Craig put the gun to his head and _bang_. Funny thing is that it wasn't really a _bang_; it was a _pop,_ more like a firecracker going off than the sound you'd hear in a movie or on TV."

Peter carefully tilted his three-legged stool back until his shoulders rested against one of the shelter's sturdy poles and then continued, "Well, Craig dropped to the floor, like someone cut his strings. I thought he'd go flyin' backwards or somethin'."

The prospector shook his head slowly at the memory. "I forgot all about lunch that day. I went back to my cubical and stared at my typewriter for a long time. Couldn't stop thinkin' about what he'd said. It kept echoing in my brain, over and over." The man blinked rapidly a couple of times before continuing. "Ya know, I had to toss my leisure suit. Never could get the bloodstains out of it." He stood up and wiped a hand down his face, as though to wipe away the memories along with the sweat that had gathered there. He dried his hands on his pant legs. "Sorry, I don't know what's gotten in to me, carrin' on like this. I shouldn't be talkin' about this to a stranger." He gave the blond a sorrowful look.

Hutch stood up shakily and put a hand on the man's shoulder. "That's a tough break. Craig was wrong though. Not everyone is like that. Take you, for instance. You gave me water when I needed it. I don't think you're a selfish bastard. You saved my life. Nothin' selfish at all about that." He gave Peter's shoulder a final squeeze as he turned back to sit down again. His legs were still shaky and weak after his ordeal in the brutal desert sun.

Peter peered over his shoulder at Hutch, giving him a speculative look. "Care to bet on that?"

Hutch gave Peter an apprehensive glance as he picked up the canteen again and took a big gulp before responding, "Bet on what?"

The prospector moved to stand in front of him, "Care to bet that if you were pushed hard enough, you'd kill?" He briefly locked eyes with his visitor.

Hutch chuckled and shook his head. "There's no bet. I can't be pushed that far. Well, 'cept maybe by my partner."

"Your partner?" The man gave him a considering look, one lightly salted eyebrow inching upwards.

Hutch ignored it. "Yeah, I'm a detective." He stressed the last word.

Peter slowly nodded, comprehending. "Oh," He stiffened up. "Hey wait, he's not out there lost somewhere, is he?" He put a hand over his eyes, shading them as he quickly scanned the area.

The blond snorted, "Starsky? Ha! Nope, he's back at town, shacked up with some chick. Don't worry about him… Speaking of worrying, _he's_ gonna get worried if I don't show up at our rendezvous at Pointer Peak."

The prospector whistled long and loud. "Pointer Peak? Son, you are hell and gone from there! My goodness, how the hell did you get so far away?"

"Well, those two jackasses who jumped me, dumped me part of the way; the rest I walked. I can't tell you how happy I am to have bumped into you out here. I don't think I coulda lasted much longer without water." He gave Peter a grateful smile.

"Well, I gotta tell you, it's the same for me – being glad you showed up an' all. I am happy to give you water and grateful for the company. It's kinda lonely all the way out here without anyone to talk to. Well, 'cept for Larry, of course." The older man moved about the small camp, putting some food in a pan and adding some sticks fire pit.

"Larry?" Hutch reluctantly capped the canteen, taking care to make sure the lid was on tight. He hung the container on one of the awning supports as he peered about for Larry.

"Larry's a vulture. I feed him scraps from time to time. Although Larry could be a Laurie for all I know." Peter shrugged, "It's just something to talk to. Silly, I know."

The prospector scratched his head and laughed. "Well, I hope Larry won't be offended, now that I have you to talk to." He stood up. "Changing the subject, I hope you don't mind having beans for your next meal, I don't have too much food to pick from; supplies are gettin' low."

"Not at all, can't afford to be too picky out here." Hutch said amiably.

As the food cooked, their conversation continued.

"So are you any relation to the Duluth, Minnesota, Hutchinsons?" Peter stirred the pan of beans.

Hutch looked away briefly. "Yeah, I've got relatives up there."

The prospector gave a low whistle. "You come from a very wealthy family Mr. Hutchinson."

"You can call me Hutch."

"Certainly, Hutch. Now if I remember correctly, your father is a very rich and famous corporate lawyer, right?"

Hutch was uncomfortable talking about his family, especially his father and his father's money to a stranger – even if the man had saved his life. "Something like that."

"So why did you become a cop? I'm sure your daddy could have made your life a lot easier…cushier for you. You could be livin' the high life, instead of being a cop." The man shook his head. "Here I am, grubbing the ground for years, hopin', prayin', diggin', and tryin' to get enough money so I never have to work again, and you could have been sitting on your ass your whole life. I just don't get it. Hey! Is that why those two punks snatched you? 'Cause they thought you had a lot of dough on you? Or maybe they thought to kidnap you for ransom?" Peter finished eating and carefully wiped the crumbs off the small table.

"I'm not really close to my family. There's no percentage in kidnapping me. They overheard a conversation between my partner and me. I gave the money to my friend to hang onto until I got back. They didn't know that, and that's the money they were after." Hutch wiped his plate clean with his last bit of bread. "They left me out here without any supplies. I could have died." He stared out into the desert, watching distant heat waves shimmer and rise off the parched surface. "I think that's what they wanted to happen to me, no loose ends that way."

"So what're you gonna do to those men if you ever find them? Beat the hell out of 'em?" The prospector began cleaning up the metal pan and plates.

Hutch snorted as he handed his plate to Peter for cleaning, "No, I'd like to, but no. I'd turn them over to the local authorities and press charges. As many as I could." He grinned at his rescuer.

The man tilted his head. "Even if you were the only one around and no one else would ever find out, you wouldn't be just a little bit tempted to beat the holy hell out of them – or even kill them – for what they tried to do to you? They left you to die, and you would have died if you hadn't found me." The prospector gave the blond a speculative look.

"But I did find you. As for beating them up, while it's an entertaining notion, in the end they're simply not worth it. As for killing them…" He locked stern eyes on Peter. "Well that would be murder, and that's against the law. I'm a cop. I uphold the law. So I'll have my revenge in a civilized, legal fashion. As my partner is fond of saying 'Those are bad guys and I'm a bad guy catcher.' "

Peter nodded, "Your partner sounds like a wise man."

Hutch smiled sardonically, "He is, just don't ever let him hear me saying that, I'd never be able to live it down. Especially since I keep telling him that I'm the brains of the outfit."

The blond turned his attention to the old jeep parked just outside of the awning. "Speaking of my partner, I need to get to Pointer Peak, or I'll be late for my meeting with him. I was supposed to be there tomorrow afternoon and now the sun is going down. You have a jeep, could you take me there?"

The prospector checked the sun's position. "I don't think so, not with what little daylight is left. I need light to see the landmarks to find my way out of here; it's real easy to get lost. Besides, I'm really close to striking it rich. I don't think I could bear to leave without hitting that vein. How about you help me for two days in exchange for a lift out of here? We're sure to hit that vein tomorrow or the next day. You're friend can wait an extra day or two, can't he?"

Hutch thought about it. Starsky would probably be late anyway, shacked up with his new lady friend. Especially as fine as that lady was, the tall detective could easily imagine Starsky losing all track of time with her. He still wasn't convinced, for he knew his partner would get understandably worried if Hutch was late. But he did owe the man for saving his life…

Seeing that the tall detective wasn't quite ready to agree, Peter upped the anti. "Well Hutch, it _is_ my food, water and jeep that you'll be using. Plus me to guide you outta here, that's precious time that I could be using digging for my gold. It's only for another day or so." The prospector wheedled.

The detective's shoulders slumped, "You're right. Okay, you've got yourself a deal Peter."

They shook on it.

Peter stood up. "Come with me, I show you what needs to be done." The prospector beckoned and Hutch followed him into the mine.

**TBC**


	3. Chapter 3

Hi all,  
Thank you all so much for the sweet reviews! You're such a wonderful bunch of people. ((HUGS)) I hope you continue to enjoy the story. 

**Warning:** This is a DARK story. Some bad words and things will be happening. If you are sensitive, please do not read this.

**Chapter 3**

_Early evening, Pointer Peak_

Starsky looked at his watch for about the twentieth time in two hours. It was now six p.m. "Well, I got here on time Hutch, so where the hell are you?" he wondered aloud as he stared out at the desert and drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. "If you don't show up soon, I might not tell you that that chick was just using me to make her boyfriend jealous. Hmm, maybe I won't tell that part anyway."

He had opened all the LTD's doors in a vain attempt to keep cool while he waited. After the sun went down, he lay down across the front seat trying to get a little rest as he waited for his partner to arrive.

The next morning, Starsky flung off Hutch's colorful poncho and opened the door of the car. Only to reach back and grab the poncho and wrap it around himself again, '_damn, it sure gets cold in the desert at night' _Starsky thought. He took a walk around the area, making sure to keep the car in sight the whole time as he called Hutch's name. With each holler, his worry increased. Hutch should have made it back by now. He dashed back to the car, wrote a quick note and stuck it to one of the parking lot signs, just in case his partner arrived while he was going for help.

Starsky drove off. Hoping all the while that when he returned with help, Hutch would be waiting for him with a smirk on his face, ready to rib him mercilessly about being like a mother hen with one chick. But deep down, something told the curly-haired cop that he had every right to be worried.

XXXX

_Bench's gold mine_

It was nearing noon and the inside of the mine was hotter than outside, or so it seemed to Hutch as he hammered away at the rock surface of the mine. His respect for all miners rose dramatically as he pounded the morning hours away with a star drill and hammer. This was mining at its most basic, there were no power tools to be had this far from civilization, there were no electric sockets to plug them into, nor did Peter Bench have a generator. The work was all manual and grueling. The sound was deafening as each hammer blow echoed within the tight confines of the mineshaft.

The tall blond stopped his hammering, determining –via repeated stomach grumbles- that this was enough work for now, he would start back at it after lunch. He dropped his tools and shouldered the leather bag full of rocks he had chipped out of the walls and exited the shaft.

Peter was busy breaking down the rocks the Hutch had brought out earlier, his sharp eyes scanning for traces of gold. His head lifted as Hutch approached him; the blond emptied the rock filled bag and picked up the canteen that Peter always kept next to him.

Hutch sat wearily down on a boulder and opened the container, taking a long, deep drink. Metallic tasting and warm, the water still went smoothly down his parched throat. He sighed as he lowered the canteen, swiping beads of water off his upper lip with his tongue, he could taste the salt from his skin as well. He lifted the canteen to drink some more.

"Don't hog it all." Peter's words were clipped.

The detective lifted his head and shot a questioning look at the miner. "Don't worry, I'm not. That's hot, thirsty work in there." He hitched a thumb towards the mine.

"It ain't any easier out here, you know. I have to check every rock you bring out for traces of gold, to make sure we're still on the right track. I'd hate to do a lot of extra work for no reason." Peter went back to chipping away at the stones.

Hutch shook his head as he thought to himself, '_yeah, and I'm doin' the majority of the 'extra' work around here.' _He recapped the container; _'The sun must be gettin' to old Pete the prospector, making him a tad touchy today_.' Only day and a half left of this and he'd be getting a jeep ride back to civilization. The blond wandered over to the shelter and noticed one dirty plate and no food in the pan. "Where's mine?" He called over to the prospector.

"I ain't your wife, you want something to eat, make it yourself. And don't be all day about it, we've got a lot of work to do if we're gonna strike that vein in the next day or so." Peter bent back to his task.

Hutch rolled his eyes and set about fixing himself a quick meal.

XXXX

Starsky slapped his hand down on the desk of the local sheriff's office. "Well?"

"Well what?" The sheriff said as he looked up from the form he was filling out. "You just told me that your friend is 'almost' twenty-four hours late meeting you. The rule is-"

"I know what the rule is. I'm a detective with the Bay City Police Department." The brunet slapped his ID and badge on the desk. "I also know my partner. He's never this late unless there's a problem. He's out in the desert, alone, anything could've happened to him. We need to start looking for him right now. If you don't make the call to Search and Rescue, I will." Dark blue eyes blazed holes into the other officer's retinas.

The sheriff held up his hands in surrender. "All right, all right, just hold on there, I'll make the call. I just wanted to see if you were serious. Sorry about that, now please just give me some details, you know – height, weight, etcetera, okay?"

Starsky rapidly rattled off Hutch's specs and handed the sheriff a map, "He gave me this map, and he marked the route he planned on takin' and where he planned on campin'. He knows a lot about camping and wilderness survival, Hutch is a regular boy scout. He wouldn't have strayed from his marked path." Starsky paced before the sheriff's desk.

The sheriff, Robert Fishborne, quickly jotted the information down "Sounds like you're trying to convince yourself. Has he done any desert camping before? It's quite different from camping in the woods, you know. People are always underestimating the desert and what they'll need to survive out there. For instance, you need to take along a lot more water. And you should _never_ camp alone, it's always best to use the buddy system." The sheriff tilted back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest as he watched the agitated man.

The brunet stopped pacing, "Yeah, the buddy system…" he gave a heavy sigh before continuing. "And no, he hasn't done any desert campin' before, not that I'm aware of anyway. Dammit! I should've gone with him-"

A familiar figure with a familiar backpack walked by the large plate glass window, caught the detective's eye. "Hutch!" Starsky burst out the station door and caught his friend by the elbow, only to be confronted by a tall blond stranger who had Hutch's backpack slung over one shoulder.

"Hey man, what's your beef?" The stranger tugged his elbow out of Starsky's grasp. "Hands off-"

Starsky latched back on to the man's arm. "Where'd you get that backpack?"

"I bought it, now let go of my arm, man." The tall man tried to break the brunet's hold and failed.

"Didn't ya hear me? Where did you get this backpack?" Starsky repeated as he dug his fingers in more deeply into the man's muscles, not giving one good damn if he left bruises or not.

"Ow! Christ man, leggo! Hey cop, get this lunatic away from me!" The tall man looked to the uniformed officer for assistance. He tugged at his imprisoned arm, still trying to free it. "I'm being assaulted!"

Sheriff Robert Fishborne stepped closer, in full cop mode, backing up a fellow police officer –even if he didn't personally know the detective. "I think you'd better answer the man, where'd you get that pack?" He pointed to the object in question.

The man squirmed under the ever-tightening grip a seeming mad man and the direct stare of a hard-nosed sheriff. "Ow! Ease off! This guy sold it to me."

"What's this_ guy's_ name?" The Bay City detective hissed angrily.

"I didn't get his name, alls I know is that him and this other guy was just sellin' some stuff out of his truck, in the grocery store parking lot," The tall man pointed in the direction of the store. "I just bought this stuff off him."

"Cuff 'im" Starsky turned the man around and pushed him roughly up against the wall "You're under arrest." He yanked the pack off the man's shoulder. A quick glace assured him it was Hutch's, though he would have known it anywhere. The initials _K.H_. were sewn on the top flap; the backpack was a gift from Hutch's mother, from a few Christmases ago.

"Arrest?" The man squeaked.

Sheriff Fishborne nodded, agreeing with the Bay City detective's assessment, "Assume the position." He quickly secured the man's wrists.

The tall man gasped, then sputtered. "What! What's the charge?"

"Receiving stolen goods, for starters." Starsky snapped. "That backpack belongs to a missing man. I suggest you cough up any information you know about those two men. And do it fast."

The man paled and spilled his guts. "Oh man! I didn't know, okay? O-One guy's name is Kurt; he's kinda fat, ya know? He's got a beer gut. I don't know the other guy's name, but I did notice that he has a crooked goatee. Oh, and the truck was a gray 68 Chevy, lotsa rust on the doors. That's all I know, honest! How much trouble am I in?" The man looked close to tears.

"You just keep cooperating and we'll see, won't we detective? Detective?" When Fishborne didn't get an answer, he looked about for the Bay City cop and saw the man sprinting in the direction of the store parking lot. "Oh hell!" He hustled the tall prisoner into the single cell and ran back outside and hopped into the only squad car in town, calling the next town over for backup as he spun the steering wheel and sent smoke rolling off his tires as he hurried after the detective.

XXXX

Starsky didn't think of anything beyond catching those two men and finding out what they had done to Hutch. He pelted down the sidewalk to the only grocery store in this small town. He slowed down as he neared the lot, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He controlled his breathing and walked casually towards the men, he had to play this just right, he had no gun, no backup and no plan to speak of.

"Hey!" Starsky called and waved at the two men who were sitting on the tailgate of the gray Chevy pickup. He continued to approach them.

"What'dya want?" The man with the crooked goatee responded as he flicked his cigarette away.

"My pal said that he got a backpack from you, cheap." Starsky motioned over his shoulder as he moved closer and leaned against the truck bed. He casually looked in the bed for any clues or signs of Hutch or any of his things. The bed contained about a dozen empty beer cans, a couple of old cardboard boxes and a battery. "I'm lookin' for some camping gear, can ya hook me up?"

"Nope. Now beat it." The pot-bellied man slid off the tailgate and took a step in Starsky's direction.

"Hey it's-" The detective's words were cut off by the sound of squealing tires and a police siren wail. The two men exchanged a look and started for the truck's doors; apparently assuming –correctly- the sirens were for them.

"Shit!" Starsky realized that in his excitement to speak to these two, he'd forgotten all about Fishborne, who apparently was coming to back him up. "Hold it right there!" He grabbed for the nearest man -who was surprisingly agile- and managed to kick Starsky in the back of the knee, which forced him to lose his balance. Another quick kick -this one to the stomach- had him gasping and struggling to get to his feet.

The two men dashed to the pickup's door and piled in. Starsky gained his feet and shoved himself halfway through the open driver's side window; he grabbed for the keys and pulled them out. He sustained several blows from the two men, but he was successful in getting the keys.

Triumphant, he pushed himself back out the window and dangled the keys tauntingly at the men as he skipped backwards way from the vehicle. He was surprised when the potbellied man smiled, flipped him the finger and fired up the engine.

"CRAP!" Starsky realized his mistake as he watched the truck roar away, smoke rolling up from the squalling tires. In older vehicles, once the ignition was turned past a certain point, you didn't need the key to start the vehicle. The pair peeled out of the parking lot.

Fishborne wheeled into the lot and slammed to a halt next to him, Starsky dashed to the passenger side and hopped in. "Would it have been too much to ask NOT to alert the bad guys by rushing in, light flashin' and sirens blarin'. Christ almighty, it sounded like the 7th Cavalry was charging in!" The brunet glared at the sheriff.

"Sorry," Fishborne gave him a sheepish, embarrassed look as he pushed the accelerator to the floorboards. "I guess I over did it. There's just not a lot of crime around here and-" A puzzled look came over his face as he maneuvered the cruiser through the dusty streets after the pickup, "Hey… the 7th Calvary, wasn't that Custer's unit?"

"Yeah. Did ya call for backup?" Starsky grabbed the officer's rifle and released it from its holder. He quickly checked it for ammo. "See if ya can't get close to them, I'll blow the tires."

"Yep, I called for backup. And right, I'll get you close enough for you to read the words on the radials." The cruiser's engine roared as the speed of the pursuit increased. "Didn't Custer die in battle?" Fishborne kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead as he further increased his speed.

"Yeah, he and the most of the 7th Calvary bought it at the battle of the Little Big Horn." Starsky replied distractedly as he focused on the truck ahead of them. "Look, I don't need to see the words on the tires, I just need a clear shot at 'em, okay? I wanna get 'em stopped. They had my partner's backpack so they must know what happened to him… where he is. Hell, I don't know if their armed or not." The rider in the gray truck leaned out the window and Starsky saw the muzzle flash and a bullet whizzed past his head. He yanked his head back inside the cruiser. "Shit! They're packin'!"

Fishborne nodded and made more calls on his radio, updating dispatch and his backup. More backup was called for by dispatch. The radio traffic increased as other units closed in on the pursuit. After a very close call with another squad unit that had joined the pursuit –and nearly the two cars- on a blind curve. "I really hope we're not the ones playing the role of the 7th Calvary today." The sheriff muttered through clenched teeth.

Starsky was unable to get a clear shot at the tires. Gamely, Fishborne kept trying to maneuver close enough without getting them shot in the process. Thankfully, there wasn't much traffic in the little town, and with more backup on the way, Starsky was fairly confidant that the chase would be over soon.

As the pursuit left the small town behind, two other units moved in, with Fishborne still in the primary position. The men in the gray Chevy blew through stop sign after stop sign, not even tapping the breaks as they fled through the intersections. Starsky's gut knotted up each time the men took that desperate gamble.

They were nearly twelve minutes into the chase when it happened.

Both Fishborne and Starsky both saw the big rig with a heavy load of fresh cut timber on the truck bed. The battered gray truck sped through the stop sign -and directly into the path of the semi truck. One instant there was a gray truck, the next it was gone, smashed to smithereens.

Fishborne slammed on the breaks when he saw what was about to happen and they skidded to a halt just shy of the intersection, one of the gray truck's tires rolled by the squad before flopping to its side. Eerily, the gray truck's horn blared loudly.

The sheriff snatched up his mic, "10-50! 10-50! Dispatch, roll out the fire department and an ambulance." Then as an afterthought, "Send a coroner's wagon too."

Starsky quickly exited the squad car and made his way to the wreckage. Little remained of the gray Chevy and the men who once occupied it. They were beyond help. He disconnected the battery, which silenced the pickup's horn. By rote, he made his way to the semi truck to check on the driver. Thankfully that man was alive, injured, but alive. He left the trucker to the helping hands of the other police officers and went back to Fishborne's squad and sat down hard on the front bumper. He rested his elbows on his knees and buried his face in his hands.

White faced, Sheriff Fishborne sat beside him. He wiped a shaky hand down his face, reaction of seeing two lives brutally snuffed out before his eyes were setting in. "Man, this is a tough break-" He dropped a conciliatory hand on the Bay City detective's shoulder.

"TOUGH BREAK?" Starsky thundered as he shook off the hand. He bounced off the bumper and into the officer's space, closing in until his nose nearly touched the sheriff's nose. "Those men are DEAD, my partner's missing and you call this-" Starsky waved a hand at the tangled mess of men and machine "'A tough break!' How the hell am I suppose to get answers from dead men? Huh? If only you hadn't-"

Starsky stopped mid sentence. It was pointless to take his anger out on Fishborne. He hadn't told the man what he was up to, Hutch would have known or figured it out, but he wasn't here. This sheriff didn't know him, but he had tried to back Starsky up anyway. The brunet couldn't fault him for that.

It wasn't Fishborne responsibility that those two men were dead. No one had made them run from the police; no one had forced them to run stop signs either. None of that mattered now. He had to find his friend. The desert was the last place he had seen Hutch. That's where they would start the search. Starsky's gut clinched at the prospect of searching the vast Mohave Desert - a desert that occupies more than 25,000 square miles and resides in four states - for his friend.

**TBC  
**


	4. Chapter 4

Hi all,

So glad that you are enjoying the ride so far. Thanks for all the kind reviews, you ladies are the very best!

**WARNING:** This is a DARK story. Bad words and bad deeds will happen. Please do not read this if you are sensitive.

**Chapter 4**

_Mohave Desert, Bench's gold mine_

Hutch had been awakened that morning by having his blanket yanked away and a annoyingly perky, "Wake up sleepy head!" Peter had kept him working long after dark the day before and then begged Hutch to help him just one more day.

Though Hutch really didn't relish another day toiling away in the mine, the man had nearly been in tears as he had told the detective he had been at this for nearly five years and now he was so close to striking it and finally having enough money to retire and maybe, just maybe his wife would take him back. "… and after all, I did save your life."

At those words, the Hutch had caved. What was one more day to help this man achieve his life's goal? Sure, Starsky would be frantic, but he was pretty sure that if Starsky were in his shoes he would help Peter out for just one more day.

At lunchtime, Peter Bench had sent the detective into the cave after a meager meal of a single tin cup of water and a biscuit. When Hutch looked at him with askance, "Supplies are gettin' low." Was Peter's rejoinder as he then began clean up of the plates and pan.

The blond's stomach complained loud and long, but he was used to fasting for days at a time. It would all be over this afternoon when Peter would take him back to town. He put his back into the work knowing that the prospector would be on his own after today. He was heartily wishing for the man to strike that gold vein.

The tall detective didn't know how long he was working before it got too hot and his mouth was parched. He also noticed that his legs were getting wobbly and his lungs, back and arms were beginning to burn with fatigue. He wandered out of the hot mine and into the bright afternoon sun. He made a beeline for the canteen, which was next to where the prospector was picking through the rock pile.

"What're you doin' out here?" Peter's words were sharp.

Hutch, seeing that Bench was once again in a snit, ignored him, picked up the canteen and took a big gulp. It was pulled roughly out of his hands. "Hey! I wasn't done drinking."

"Yeah you are, get back in there." Peter capped the container and pointed at the mouth of the mine. "Now."

Since those two thugs had stolen his pocket watch, Hutch tilted his head up and shaded his eyes as he checked to position of the sun. The day was far enough along, if they didn't pack up to leave now, it would be too dark for Peter to find his way out of the desert. He was done humoring the prospector. He started walking towards the jeep.

"Where do you think you're goin'?" All pretence of friendliness was gone from the prospector's voice.

"I've had enough Peter, I've busted my ass helping you for nearly two days and now I'm leaving." Hutch continued walking to the jeep.

Peter ran over and grabbed his arm. "You're not leaving until I get my gold outta that mine."

Hutch easily broke the hold on his arm. "The gold will keep. We can't eat it and we can't drink it. You just drive me back to town and I don't give a rip what you do if you find your gold. Bathe in it, or shove it up your ass for all I care." He turned his back to the prospector and stalked towards the jeep.

A vulture sat on the roll bar. It had to be Larry, the vulture that Peter had spoken of on the first day. It turned its ugly, bald head and looked at him. Normally Hutch would have been amused, but there was nothing normal about today. "Git!" He flapped his arms at the big bird, attempting to shoo it away. It merely tilted its head and stared at him. "Fine, ride along, I don't care."

The blond headed around the front of the vehicle to the driver's side.

**BANG!**

The crack of a rifle split the air. Hutch whipped around and Peter was pointing the gun at his chest. Behind him the blond could hear liquid hitting the ground. Peering over his shoulder, he could see fluid leaking out of the radiator and on to the sand. Knowing that the engine would readily overheat and seize without the radiator or enough water to replace the spilled fluid, he knew they were in big trouble. "What the hell are you doing? How are we supposed to get out of here now?"

"You don't leave until I say you can leave. And you don't leave until I get my gold. Get back in that mine." Peter motioned with the barrel of the rifle. "Go on, get in there!"

"What if I don't?" Hutch drew himself to his full height, standing straight and tall before the muzzle of the gun.

"I'll kill you." Peter fired another round. It kicked up sand between Hutch's feet. "I hit whatever I aim at. Get back to work. And if you work hard enough, I'll give you food and water. Which is more then those two punks did for you. I'm giving you something they didn't." The man smiled as he leveled the barrel at the detective's chest.

"And what's that?" Hutch sneered.

"A choice." Peter cocked the rifle and pointed it at the detective's chest. "Work and live, or don't and die."

Upon hearing that, Hutch stepped back towards the mine. This was not the time to argue. He would wait for a better time, when the muzzle of a rifle wasn't pointed at his heart.

XXXX

_Mohave Desert_

Starsky put the binoculars down, but continued to squint out at the bright desert. "Where are you, Hutch?" His eyes burned from the constant peering through the field glasses and the brightness of the sun. Part of that burn was from the advanced stages of fatigue.

The Search and Rescue team had been looking for his partner for over a couple of days now and Hutch wasn't anywhere along the route he had given to Starsky. The team had found where the blond had camped the first night, not that he had left much evidence of being in that spot.

If his partner hadn't marked that spot on the map, Starsky would have been hard pressed to figure out that anyone had ever been there. The trackers assured Starsky that that was where Hutch had camped on his first night out and that would have to be good enough for him. What all this meant, was that the search grid would have to be expanded.

Starsky had already put in a call to Dobey and filled him in as best he could about what was going on. Dobey had instructed him to keep him posted. The brunet agreed to do just that. He picked up a canteen and quaffed it down. S&R personnel had instructed him to keep hydrated and to consume some salt as well, since he was sweating out electrolytes along with the water.

With each sip, the brunet took in the blazing sun and he was reminded of how quickly Hutch's meager water supply would dwindle in this heat. What water his friend had taken into the desert, must surely be gone by now. Though he had now heard of people who had been found dead by S&R with water still in their canteens. They had essentially _conserved_ themselves to death. Starsky didn't really find that information particularly helpful, or comforting.

XXXX

_Bench's mine_

Hutch staggered out of the cave, dragging a heavy sack of rocks that he had hammered out of the mine wall. He pulled it over to the pile of stones by Peter and dumped it out.

Peter looked up from a rock he was studying. "That's not a full load."

"Peter, it's hotter then hell in there. I can't w-work-" Hutch paused to suck some oxygen into his lungs so he could continue, "-any harder or I'll drop from heat exhaustion." He panted as he bent at the waist, rested his hands on his knees and gasped for air.

"You poor, poor _baby_. Poor little _rich_ boy. I feel so sorry for you. 'It's too hot… This is too hard… I can't take it anymore.'" The miner sneered in falsetto. "Poor _baby._ For the first time in your life, you have _real_ work to do and you can't take it. Tsk, tsk, tsk." He clucked as he shook his head mockingly.

That pissed Hutch off and he stood up, rammed his finger under the man's nose and snapped, "Dammit Peter-"

The prospector raised a pistol and thumbed back the hammer. "You are no longer permitted to address me as 'Peter'. We are not equals anymore. You must now call me Mr. Bench." He gave the blond a haughty look.

"What? Why?" The detective's eyes slid from the muzzle of the pistol to Peter's steel gray eyes. He hadn't known that the man had a pistol as well as a rifle, this was not good.

"You are whining like a child. You must now be treated like one." The man's tone voice had taken on a superior tone.

Hutch shook his head in disbelief. "That's crazy-"

Peter stood up and shoved the pistol into the detective's face. "Who're you calling crazy?"

Hutch didn't need to be a detective to figure out the man was on the edge. With the business end of a gun pointing at his right eye, there was no chance of Peter missing him if he tried to jump the prospector. Hutch simply held still, making no move, waiting to see what Peter would do next.

The prospector backhanded him hard across the face. Peter had been hammering away at rocks for five years; he had the strength to prove it.

The tall detective staggered with the might of the blow.

"That's for back talkin' me. Now, get back to work and there'll be no supper for you tonight."

Hutch wiped at the thin trickle of blood from his split lip as he headed back into the mineshaft. The monotony of hammering stone would give him plenty of time to think about how to get out of this mess.

He glanced over his shoulder, trying to keep Peter in sight, it made the spot between his shoulder blades itch knowing the crazy prospector was behind him with a loaded gun. As he snuck his glance, Hutch noticed Larry the vulture sitting on the roll bar of the jeep, watching them and seeming to reside over the spectacle.

XXXX

_Mohave Desert, day 9_

Starsky watched the knot of Search and Rescue personnel. Every so often one of them would sneak a quick look at him. He had been excluded from the huddle – so far. He wanted to bust into the middle and demand to know what they were talking about.

Not that he needed them to tell him. They were talking about Hutch and were likely debating whether to keep looking or give up. They had been looking for over a week now. Nine days to be exact. Nine days, eight nights, an eternity to be in the desert without sufficient supplies.

He could hear snatches of conversation, they said words like '_too long'_,_' needle in a haystack_' and the one word Starsky couldn't make himself believe '_dead_'. Hutch wasn't dead. He couldn't be. Starsky figured after all they had been through as partners, he would somehow _know_ if his friend were dead. And right now, Hutch didn't _feel_ dead to him. Starsky was well aware that he could be wrong. He had been wrong before about 'knowing' someone was still alive, when in reality, they were quite dead. One was his father; another was a close friend in Vietnam.

Hutch was the believer in physic abilities, not Starsky. Though his recent dealings with Collandra caused him to change his thinking- some. Still, Hutch did not _feel_ dead. And since no body had been found, there was no call to give up the search just yet. Starsky made his way to the huddled group of S&R, determined to convince them of that.

XXXX

_Bench's gold mine_

After being in Peter's clutches for seven days… or was it eight? Nine? The detective shook his head and scratched at his sweaty, itchy beard. Shaving was one more 'luxury' that Bench had taken away from him. The days were melting together now and Hutch decided the he was officially in Hell. His sunburned skin had peeled off of his face and arms a couple of day ago. His lips were chronically cracked from being so dry. Crazy Peter kept up the pressure and kept on taking away 'luxuries' and heaping on punishments.

His latest punishment was to serve Peter his food. The blond was also required to call Peter 'sir' and sit in the sun while he ate his meager meals. Hutch wondered if next he'd be required to call Bench 'master'. He snickered giddily at that, not quite knowing if he thought it were funny, or if he was beginning to lose his own mind from the heat, hard work, and ever decreasing amounts of food and water he was now getting.

Then there was Larry the vulture. The bird was ever present now, winging in -- in the morning and leaving as dusk gathered. Of course the detective had no way of knowing if the bird left while he hammered his days away in the mine – which had still yet to produce a single nugget or flake or speck of anything resembling gold. Hutch was certain there was no gold, but that did nothing to stop Peter from making him dig for it anyway.

Tonight it would end. Tonight he was going to escape. He may not know exactly where to go, though he had been studying the stars and the lay of the land, so he knew what direction he would head in. Now it was time to leave. Anything was better than staying here with crazy Pete the prospector.

XXXX

Hutch listened intently, hearing no movement from Peter's pallet, he carefully rolled up the blanket he had been using during his forced stay and tossed it over one shoulder. He was glad of the full moon over head; it would give him light to navigate by. He made his way to the canteen and removed it from its hook, from the feel of it, it was full of water.

The pistol and rifle were somewhere. He couldn't risk going near Pete and looking for them, it was too dangerous. He wanted to be as far away from the man as he could get by morning. He planned on hiding during the day, conserving his energy for walking at night.

He wouldn't take any food. It would actually be better that way. Food took a lot of water to process and with only a single canteen available; he simply couldn't afford to take any with him. Not that there was much food left. As for the limited water, he would have to be vigilant and ration it until he reached civilization. Hutch crouched low and walked on the balls of his feet, thus minimizing any sound he might make.

The blond heard a sound and dropped quickly to his belly and froze. After hearing nothing for several minutes, he belly crawled slowly away from camp. Once he made it to the outer rim, he got back to his feet and started to run. It felt good to run; a smile broke over his face. It felt good to be free of Peter Bench. He could barely contain his giddy laughter, but he forced it down. He would laugh later, when he was a long way away from here.

_Click_

Hutch skidded to a halt; he knew that sound. His heart and stomach clenched as one, fear scrunched them into a ball.

"Going somewhere _rich_ boy?" Bench stressed the word rich.

"Yeah, away from you!" Hutch sneered.

"No, I don't think so. Lay down!" Bench motioned with the rifle. "NOW!"

"Screw you!" Hutch spit, it landed on Peter's cheek.

Peter took his fingers and collected the spit from his cheek. Smiling, he put his fingers in his mouth and sucked on them.

Thoroughly disgusted Hutch stepped back from the man. A bullet whizzed by his right ear. He stopped moving, knowing that Peter would kill him if he moved again. _'Can't escape if your dead, Hutchy, bide your time, try again later'_ he carefully counseled himself. His hands ignored his coaching and rebelliously clenched into fists.

The prospector gave him a considering look. "Change of plans, before you lie down, walk back to camp."

Hutch had no recourse but to do as he was told. Reluctantly, he forced his feet to take him back to camp.

Once there, Peter forced him to lay down, spread eagle on the ground, face down. Bench then picked up his pistol and proceeded to tie the detective's hands behind his back. "Get up and walk over to the shelter, put your back against the main support pole."

Hutch stood up, but didn't move. "No."

Peter attacked him; using the pistol grip portion of the weapon, he whacked the detective across the chin, knocking him to his knees. Bench hit the blond again, knocking him flat this time, he tossed the pistol away and took another piece of rope and tied Hutch's ankles together.

"You stole from me _rich_ boy. You took _my _canteen and _my_ blanket. That makes you a thief – a common criminal. So now I'm gonna treat you that way. For stealing from me, I am going to cut your rations. Since you had enough energy after working all day to try to escape, you're obviously getting too much food anyway."

Peter reached down and picked up the canteen, then sat down hard on Hutch's back, using him like a chair. Bench unscrewed the lid and tipped the canteen over, sand poured out onto the ground next to the detective's head. He burst out laughing at his sick little trick.

Hutch closed his eyes and buried his face in the dirt, defeated. Even if he had escaped Peter tonight, he would have died in the desert without water in that canteen.

**TBC**


	5. Chapter 5

Hi all,

Thanks for your continued interest in this story. This chapter is gonna be a rough one.

**Warnings:** Torture, suffering, profanity, some adult content and gross things. Please do not read this if you are sensitive. Really. I am not kidding.

**Chapter 5**

_Fishborne's office, the morning of day 10_

Sheriff Fishborne braced himself before speaking, after so many days around Detective David Michael Starsky; he pretty much knew how the man was going to take the information he had to tell him. "Detective, it's been ten days now. I really don't think-"

"I'm not interested in what you think Rob, I'm not giving up. He's out there." The detective gestured towards the desert. "I gotta feelin'."

Fishborne held up his hand, as he shook his head sadly, "I know, you keep telling me that. I'm sure he _is_ out there, but after this much time, it's _very_ doubtful he's alive."

Starsky punched his fist onto the desktop, hard enough to leave knuckle impressions in the surface. "He IS alive, dammit! I _know_ him. Hutch'll do whatever it takes to survive. We just gotta keep lookin'. We can't give up on him, not yet. Not yet."

"I think I know one more place we could look. It's a long shot and it's way beyond the search grid... all right detective, I'll give you one more day. But only ONE." He held up his index finger.

The Bay City cop beamed at him.

XXXX

_Bench's mine, day 10_

Hutch leaned against the mine's wall and panted. He had stopped sweating. This was bad. It meant something was wrong, but his foggy brain couldn't remember what that _something_ was. He looked at his light source, the flame from the oil lamp twisted and blurred. He had to get out of the cave, now. Had to have some water, now. He staggered to the mouth of the mine, and collapsed. Unconsciousness enveloped him.

XXXX

Water, cool sweet water touched his lips and caressed his brow. It felt so good. He drank, the water slipped down his throat like the finest champagne. Next he felt hands on him, rubbing him, gently, tenderly. The heat ebbed from his overheated body and the gentle touches continued. The coolness soon covered him, blanketed him, suffusing his whole body. Hutch sighed, it felt so good, so very good to be taken care of, coddled, cared for. He gave himself over to the feel. It had been ages; years, centuries even, since he felt this way.

He could feel the hands on him, feel his face being shaved. It was fantastic to have the itchy, hot, beard and mustache removed. Fingers caressed his brow and a wet cloth was placed on his forehead. He was safe.

Safe?

His mind stopped at that word. Where was he? He must have asked the question out loud, for a voice whispered in his ear "Shhh" Just that and nothing more.

Hospital?

He must be in a hospital. There were lips on his ears, gentle nibbles along the lobes. The nibbling kisses made their way to his mouth. No, he was not a hospital then. But he did have a way with nurses. Nurse? He guessed anyway. _No_.

Vanessa? _No_.

Jeannie? _No_.

Had he said those names aloud, or were they just in his mind? Were the 'nos', his? Or from someone else? Hutch couldn't seem to make himself care right now. It was all he could do to simply lie there. It was all he had energy for.

Hands roamed freely over his exposed skin, but he was too exhausted, too limp, too everything… to care. The hands, lips and teeth continued their southern journey.

Abby? _No._

A hand gripped his manhood and stroked it. Hutch started to struggle to the surface, something wasn't right.

"Woman pretty and hung like a horse, ain't cha, _rich boy_?"

The hand on his manhood gave it a hard yank. What had been firming up, quickly softened and shriveled under the revolting touch as Peter Bench's voice shocked him out of his heat exhaustion-induced stupor. Hutch's eyes snapped open and he tried to fight, but couldn't. His hands and feet were tied. He snarled at Bench, as he continued to fight and pull at his bonds.

Bench sat back on his heels, watching him and laughing, laughing as if this were the finest of jokes. "You know, it's been a while since I've had a woman, I bet if I turned you around, I think I could make-believe long enough to get my rocks off."

At Hutch's disgusted look, Peter started laughing so hard he fell over.

Hutch struggled harder against his bonds, unmindful of the sand abrading his naked body. "Try it Bench! You sick, crazy son-of-a-BITCH! Try it and I'll-"

Peter pounced on Hutch, straddling his chest, knees on either side of the tall blond's body "And you'll what? Kill me? That's what you want, isn't it? To kill me?" Bench leaned down and hissed in the detective's face. "You're about to get your chance-" The prospector was interrupted by the sound of a helicopter.

Both men froze as it came closer. Hutch wildly pitched his body upwards, attempting to dislodge the prospector.

"Shit!" Bench exclaimed as he jumped up. He grabbed his naked and bound captive and dragged him deep into the mine. Peter ran out of the cave and soon returned with Hutch's clothes, he dropped them in a heap by the bound man. He quickly secured Hutch to a rock and gagged the man with his own underwear.

Peter grabbed a hank of blond hair and pulled up on it, lifting his helpless captive's head off the ground and showed Hutch a hand grenade. "Free yourself, call attention to yourself and I'll use this to kill them. Got it _rich_ boy?" He didn't wait for a response, he simply let go of the hair, pocketed the grenade and trotted out of the mine.

XXXX

Peter made quick work of removing what little evidence there was of there being two people at his camp. He also brushed out the drag marks as well. He sat under his shelter and waited. If the helicopter landed, he was ready for them. Any tracks he might have missed would be blown away by the rotor wash. He grinned. This was even better then he could have ever planned.

XXXX

Starsky looked down at the small shelter that was surrounded by miles and miles of desert. "How can anyone live way out here?" He asked into the headset's mic.

"I wouldn't call what crazy Peter does, 'living'. He's alone out here. If he's seen anyone, they're probably still here, if he hasn't talked them to death." Fishborne laughed as he answered. He tapped the pilot on the shoulder, "Take us down, we'll talk to him – if we can get a word in edgewise." He turned to the Bay City cop and cautioned. "Don't call him crazy, he hates that."

XXXX

After they landed, a lone figure trotted out from under the shelter to meet them. "Hey!" The man waved both arms as he broke into a run towards his visitors. "Hey!"

Starsky looked doubtfully at Fishborne. "Likes to talk?"

"LOVES to talk." The sheriff reiterated.

"I'm staying with the copter." The pilot quickly climbed back into his seat and shut the door.

Starsky shot a look at Fishborne.

"He's had to '_talk_' to Peter before."

"Terrific." Starsky clenched his teeth. He was in no mood to humor a talkative hermit/miner.

"Howdy sheriff!" The miner grabbed Fishborne's hand and pumped it hard. "It's been a coon's age! Ever wonder how long a coon's age is?" Spotting Starsky, while still shaking the sheriff's hand asked, "hey! Who's this person?"

Not waiting for an answer, the miner dropped the sheriff's hand and grabbed Starsky's and began pumping it like a hydrant handle. "Hi! My name's Bench, Peter Bench. But you can call me Peter. Or Pete. Or Bench, or Mr. Bench or-"

Starsky pulled his hand out of the miner's firm grip. "I got it Peter. Okay if I call you Peter?"

"Sure! Or you can call me Pete, or Bench or-" The man had an eager-to-please expression on his face. He grabbed for Starsky's hand again.

The curly haired cop put his hands behind his back. "YES! Got it! Peter will do, thank you. I will call you Peter."

"Just don't call me crazy Peter, or crazy Pete, or crazy-" The older man cautioned.

Starsky cut him off "No! Course not. Wouldn't dream of it. Have you seen anyone around here lately? I'm looking for my friend. He's a blond guy, has blue eyes. He's about your height and weight and he's just about my age. You'd know him if you saw him. He's a real nice guy. His name is Ken Hutchinson. He's been missing for about ten days."

Peter whistled "Ten days! That's a mighty long time to be out here, if you're lost. Or even if you're not. I should know, I've been out here for years. Hey! I can make us some coffee, or tea. Kinda hot out for those things, though, but hell I'm game. Hey, come on over and sit a spell. Put you're feet up. It's been a while since I've had visitors. Well, 'cept for Larry." He motioned towards his shelter and nodding eagerly.

"Larry?" Starsky's eyebrows knitted in confusion. The sheriff shook his head and waved his hands behind Bench's back, trying to warn the Bay City detective. Starsky saw the motions and could have kicked himself for opening the door for one of Bench's tangents.

"Larry's a vulture. 'Course, Larry could be a Laurie, never have gotten close enough to see. How do you sex a vulture anyway? Heard they do that with chickens, so they just sell the hens to those chicken farms. I know! If I had them, I could just set out a beer and a phone. If it goes to the phone, it's a female, if it goes to the beer it's a male-"

Starsky held his hand up, "Thank you, Peter! That's all I need to know bout chickens or vultures or whatever… Thanks."

The miner's features fell and a wounded expression came over his face. "Well, sorry… I just… sorry. Um, do you want something to drink? I could still make some coffee or tea. Got some water, if ya want that." He gestured weakly in the direction of his shelter.

Starsky shook his head, "No, sorry Peter. I gotta keep lookin' for my friend. Great talkin' with ya." He started back to the helicopter, trying not to care that he was being rude to the poor, obviously lonely man.

Peter didn't stay down in the dumps for very long, "Sheriff! How 'bout you? I could show you how far I've gotten in the mine. I'm really close to strikin' it rich!" The prospector begged and tugged lightly on the sheriff's arm. "Real close… I think you'd be interested in seeing it. C'mon, please? No need to leave so soon, you just got here." Peter wheedled.

"Next time Pete, okay?" Fishborne shook the prospector's hand and jogged to catch up to the detective, who had already hopped into the cockpit.

XXXX

Bench watched as the sheriff got into the copter and its engine was throttled up, the blades spun faster and faster. He waved at them one last time. The blades spun rapidly, loose sand and debris from the rotor wash pelted him, forcing the prospector to turn away. The helicopter rose into the sky and took off, until all that was left was the retreating echoes of the blades chopping through the air.

Peter smiled, turned on his heel and walked back to his camp.

**TBC**


	6. Chapter 6

Hi All,

Thanks for the reviews, as always, they mean a lot to me.

**Warning:** Some language, gross things, bad things and more craziness.

**Chapter 6 **

Hutch listened, struggling to hear anything. The only sounds that made it this far into the mine was the sound of the helicopter landing and a short while later, departing. He wanted to cry. And he wanted to laugh too. Cry because help was so close and yet so far way. And laugh because crazy Peter hadn't killed those men. Hadn't killed Starsky. He had a strong feeling that his partner had been in that copter.

Ironically, he was slightly relieved that they hadn't found him. Especially since Peter had used Hutch's own dirty underwear to gag him. And it _did_ gag him. He nearly puked several times, but he had restrained himself because otherwise, with the gag in the way, he could easily strangle on his own vomit. He really didn't want his coroner's report to read 'death by tighty-whities'. Provided they ever found him, that is.

All levity left him as the blond recalled how near to being rescued he was. Help had been so close, so, so close to him. Close to finding and helping him. But they hadn't. Hutch knew that he had to escape Peter's clutches on his own –somehow- and very soon. He couldn't bear it anymore. Couldn't bear the torture, mind games and couldn't bear the prospector's insanity.

He couldn't go on like this, not a minute longer. He knew he must escape.

The sound of footsteps approaching called Hutch back to the present. Bound as he was, there was nothing he could do until Bench freed him. His heart hammered wildly in his chest. What would happen when the man returned? He didn't have to wait long; Peter walked into the shaft and sat down on a rock.

The bound detective watched as Bench steepled his hands and rested his chin on the tips of his fingers, his gray eyes on Hutch. Peter did nothing for an agonizingly long time. After a while he pulled the grenade from his pocket and carelessly tossed it from one hand to the other. It was frightening and hypnotic.

Once Bench missed and it nearly hit the ground. He caught a scant inche before it hit the ground.

Hutch instinctively twitched and ducked his head, a futile effort to protect himself from the expected explosion.

The prospector laughed at his captive's reflexive movements and knelt down beside him, pulled out the now-sodden underwear out of the detective's mouth and wiped a bit of drool of his captive's chin.

"Well, you past that little test. So, do you wanna be my _girl_ now? My wife never had any complaints. Well, at least not about the bedroom part of our marriage. I could treat you real nice. You liked it well enough before we were interrupted." The mad man dangled Hutch's underwear on one finger and slowly twirled it around.

Hutch was revolted, "Screw you!" he croaked out.

"Well, that's what I had in mind for you. Does that mean that you don't wanna be my girl?" Peter flung the underwear away, it landed somewhere out of Hutch's line of sight.

Unable to work up enough saliva to spit at the crazy bastard, Hutch had to settle for rasping, "No! Stay the hell away from me!" he tried to pull back away from the mad man, but his bonds didn't allow that much movement.

Peter shrugged. "I didn't really think you would. That's okay, I was born straight and I'll die straight. Speaking of dying…" he stood up and dug into his pocket and pulled out the hand grenade. He pulled the pin and dropped the grenade in front of Hutch, just out of reach. "Nice knowin' ya!" The man ran out of the mine laughing, leaving the helpless detective staring at the grenade.

Unable to move, Hutch gaped wide-eyed at the grenade and struggled for all he was worth to free himself. The ropes held firm. He continued his frenzied attempts to get free as the seconds ticked by. His heart hammered wildly against his chest wall, threatening to make a break for it. Hutch wished it good luck.

Time stood still as he waited for his end to come, questions blurred speedily through his brain. Would he hear the blast? Would he be able to feel himself being ripped to shreds? Or would he survive the blast, only to have the mine cave in and kill him? Still more time passed. How long did it take for a grenade to blow? Surely enough time had gone by, would it go off, or was it a dud?

His answer came moments later when Peter staggered into view.

The prospector was holding his sides and gasping with barely suppressed chuckles. He plopped down next to Hutch and picked up the grenade and playfully tossed it into the air and caught it. He stopped and looked at the detective "You should've seen the look on your face when I pulled that pin!" He gasped for air between hyena-like whoops of laughter. He wiped at his eyes, "Aw man, it was a Kodak moment!"

Peter playfully tossed the grenade in the air again and deftly caught it. "This thing's a dud, a hollowed out souvenir I picked up at some roadside dive." He snickered as he put the pin back in the dead grenade.

Bench scooted closer to Hutch, so his hip touched the blond's shoulder. "Now, let's just think about this for a moment… You coulda freed yourself, called out and right now –this very minute- you'd be a free man. But you didn't and you're still stuck with me. We're both still in the game and now I'm gonna up the anti." The crazy man checked the blond's ropes before continuing, his tone no longer jovial. "I used the last of our water to revive you earlier, so I hope you enjoyed it. Now the really interesting part of the game begins."

Upon hearing that the games would continue, Hutch strove to change the subject to distract the mad miner. "Why didn't you ask for some water from our visitors?"

Peter shook his head, "They might have gotten curious, started snooping around. Besides, it would have been cheating. Would've screwed up the whole game, can't have that, now could we?"

_He's got a one track mind._ Hutch thought. He didn't care what demented game Peter was playing. Knowing he couldn't win, he kept his mouth firmly shut and turned his head away, retreating from the madness the only way he could.

Peter grabbed a handful of hair and yanked up, hard. "Don't you look away from me when I'm talkin' to you! You damn well better listen-"

The detective jerked his head free of the prospector's grasp, losing a hank of hair in the process. When Peter reached for him again, angry and frustrated beyond words and without conscious thought, Hutch latched on to the man's hand with his teeth and bit down for all he was worth. He worried the flesh between his grinding pearly whites.

"Ow! Son of a bitch!" Peter bashed him in the head with the grenade.

Stunned by the hard blow, the blond released his toothy grip.

Peter backhanded him, "Biting? You just dropped down another notch_, rich_ _boy_; now you're nothin' but an animal. And since animals don't need clothes," He gathered Hutch's belongings and rolled them into a bundle and tucked them under his arm. "You won't be needing these any longer." He picked up the lantern and left Hutch in the dark, laying on the hard stone floor of the mine, naked, sweating and seething with rage.

_Fishborne's office, day 11_

"C'mon sheriff, just one more day, huh? What d'ya say?" Starsky wheedled, applying every bit of charm that he could muster. He had been at the poor man for ten minutes now and could see by Fishborne's posture he was about to give in. The official, full-scale search for Ken Hutchinson was over. But that didn't mean by any stretch that the brunet was done looking. His gut kept telling him -in no uncertain terms- that Hutch was still alive.

"Detective, I can't keep doing this. Taking the copter out costs money-"

"Hutch is my best friend as well as my partner. Would you give up searching for your best friend after only eleven days?" Starsky argued, leaning in close to make his point.

Fishborne dropped his face into his hands and held that position for several seconds before slowly raising his index finger. "Just one more day, alright? One!"

Starsky smiled.

XXXX

_Bench's mine, day 11_

Hutch had slept fitfully that night, tied to a rock in the bowels of the gold mine. Unable to move more then a few inches, and lying on a bed of rough-hewn stone, this ranked as the second most uncomfortable night. Just below the time he was trapped under his car with a broken leg. The only thing keeping it from being the worst, most uncomfortable night, was the fact that Peter would free him in the morning to work in his fucking mine.

As expected, in the morning the mad prospector had released him and was now holding him at gunpoint as Hutch hammered away in the rock wall.

Before today, he honestly didn't think there was any way to make mining any more horrible. He'd been wrong, naked mining was far worse. The sharp shards of rock bounced away and hit his unprotected fresh. Stones under foot poked and cut his bare feet and he had stubbed all of his toes by noon. He wanted nothing more but to stop, lie down and rest, but with Bench holding a gun on him, he had no choice but to keep at it.

Peter was now his constant companion. He didn't let Hutch out of his sight. Not even when nature called. It was degrading and humiliating.

And through it all –day in and day out- Larry the vulture sat on the roll bar of the jeep and watched.

**TBC**


	7. Chapter 7

Hi Ladies,

Thank you so much for letting me know you enjoyed the last chapter. There will be one more chapter after this one.

**Warnings:** A few words, bad stuff. If you're sensitive, please don't read this.

**Chapter 7**

_Fishborne's office, morning of day 12_

The sheriff could feel the dark blue eyes silently burning holes into the back of his head as he did his level best to ignore the persistent Bay City detective. After stubbornly attempting to get some paperwork done for nearly two hours, Robert Fishborne signaled his defeat by sticking one index finger in the air.

Behind him, Starsky gave a happy, yet grim smile.

XXXX

_Bench's mine, morning of day 12_

Hutch's head slowly dipped downward until his airway was once again cut off and he jerked back awake. His eyelids drooped almost immediately as exhaustion firmly tugged down on them. The detective wearily tilted his head back to rest it against the pole, trying to snatch a few seconds of sleep.

Last night Peter had tied him -still naked- to one of the support poles of the shelter. Bench had first tied his hands behind the pole and added new element. A rope around his neck. This forced the blond to keep waking up since his air was cut off every time he dozed off and his head dropped forwards. As an after thought, Bench had thrown a blanket over Hutch's shivering body. It did very little to give him comfort and almost nothing to keep him warm. But it was better than nothing.

A solid kick to his leg roused him from an all to brief moment of sleep. Hutch focused a blurry eye on his captor.

"Wakey, wakey!" The prospector chirped as he again kicked his defenseless captive, he leaned down and yanked the blanket away, leaving the detective totally exposed to the elements once more.

"Screw you!" The exhausted, irate blond hissed.

"You got work to do." Bench moved behind the pole to untie him.

"Hell no, I ain't workin' in that worthless pit!" Hutch grated hoarsely.

The prospector stood up and eyed his prisoner. "Looks like you don't wanna work today. Bet I can make you changes your mind." Bench came back around the pole to face Hutch. He squatted down next to the bound man and stared at him.

"Why don't you just kill me now Peter? Huh? I'm tired of you and your crazy bets, games and your damn gold-less mine. Let's just get it over with." Hutch's voice was an exhausted rasp.

"You want this over with? Fine! How 'bout a nice, rousing game of Russian roulette?" Bench snapped as he stood back up, using his height and position to try to intimidate his captive.

The detective tilted his head up to stare in disbelief at Peter. "What?"

Peter produced his pistol from where he'd hidden it in the back of his belt. He carefully showed the detective the empty chambers before loading a single bullet, closing it and giving the chamber a spin. The miner's flat gray eyes met light blue for a long moment, scrutinizing the detective. "What'sa matter _rich_ boy? Got sand in your ears or are you just stupid?"

Hutch gapped mutely at the miner, his tired brain struggling to comprehend the problem he now faced.

"Rush-ann rou-let" Bench spoke as if Hutch were severely mentally impaired. "Since you're so interested in getting this over with, you get to go first." He put the muzzle to detective's head.

"NO! Peter, don't!" Hutch attempted to twitch his head away. He could see the mad man's finger whiten on the trigger. He gasped in horror when he saw Bench's finger slowly squeeze back towards the trigger guard until the hammer flashed towards the chamber.

_--Click!--_

The blond released the breath he'd been holding. He gave a grateful sigh that the one the hammer had hit was, empty.

"Huh" Peter grunted at the result and cleared his throat. "Well folks, we have a winner for the first round! Monte, tell him what he's won!" Making believe he was listening to someone off-camera, Bench nodded and then turned back to Hutch, "You get a few more minutes of life. Congratulations!" He giggled madly at his own joke, before sobering. "All kidding aside, it's my turn now." The miner spun the barrel and put the gun to his head.

Hutch's moment of relief that he hadn't been shot disappeared as Bench's actions snapped him right back into panic mode." Peter! Wait! Don't do that!" Appalled at the morning's bizarre events, he tried to think of a way to talk Bench out of this madness, but having been deprived of food, water and sleep; his brain processes were greatly slowed. "Can't we talk about this?"

The salt and peppered slowly head turned towards him.

The detective mentally flailed around for inspiration, for some way to change the man's mind. Or at least get Bench to set him free, just incase the crazy son of a bitch managed to off himself. If Peter died while the blond was still tied up, Hutch could still die if he wasn't able to free himself. He'd been surreptitiously trying off and on all night long and hadn't succeeded.

Peter looked down at him, and lowered his weapon. "Why? Have you grown fond of me?" He baby talked, then winked at his captive and blew him a kiss. At the detective's look of disgust, the prospector's expression hardened. He firmly grabbed the blond's chin and looked into the disgusted light blue eyes. "Hmmm, something tells me your answer is still no." He let go of Hutch's face and lifted the gun again, placing the muzzle firmly to his own temple.

"Wait!" Hutch hastily interrupted the mad miner. "Yesterday you spoke of being fair. This is not fair. I mean, if you kill yourself with me tied up, I'll die too, don't you see?" He quickly reasoned, "See? Not fair."

The prospector used the muzzle of the gun to scratch his cheek as he appeared to consider the notion. "You're right, but I the one in control and I'm makin' up the rules of this here game, not you." He raised the gun to his temple and pulled the trigger.

_--Click!--_

Hutch flinched.

"Hey, looks like we both win. For now. Wanna play another round?" Peter giggled as he spun the barrel once more, eyeballing the detective with a speculative look on his face.

"No! Peter don't!" The blond began to wildly fight against his ropes, unmindful of his raw, abraded wrists and all over body pain.

Bench crouched down next to him, peering at him like one might look at a very interesting bug. "What'sa matter? Don't the poor little _rich boy_ wanna play no more?" He sneered as he brought the gun up to the detective's head.

"No! I-"

_--BANG!-- _

Hutch's heart stopped and his ears rang with the echoed sound of gunfire. He waited for the pain, waited for the blood to flow. For a long while there was nothing. There was no sound but his own panicked breaths, wildly hammering heart and the roaring of blood pulsing in his ears. Beside his head, smoke rose out of the bullet hole in the wooden support beam and he could smell singed hair – his hair –a tangible testament to how close the bullet had come to killing him. He swallowed convulsively.

"You lose." There was satisfaction in the prospector's voice. "You willin' to go back into the mine and work? Or do you wanna play again?" Peter asked as he blew the smoke from the barrel before giving it another casual spin.

Fearing what might happen if he said no, Hutch weakly whispered "I'll work, I'll work." He wanted nothing more to do with Bench and his crazy, twisted games.

By late that afternoon, the laboring detective's breath came in dry pants and painful wheezes. Peter prodded Hutch -still naked and near delirious with heat prostration- out of the mine and tied him to the shelter. Peter re-entered the mine with some sticks of dynamite. A short time later Bench dashed out and dove for cover. After the dust settled, Bench released Hutch and forced him to enter the mine to see if the blast had finally exposed the vein of gold he had clearly lost his mind searching for.

After looking long and hard, Hutch picked up a couple of rocks and wearily exited the mine. He stumbled resignedly to the shelter where Peter sat, waiting for him.

"This is it. There's nothin' but rocks in there. There is no vein of gold…" The blond tiredly dropped the rocks at Bench's feet and bonelessly flopped to the ground, sapped of all energy by exhaustion, lack of food and dehydration. "There's no gold in there at all. This," he waved his hands around, encompassing the whole area "was all for nothing." He shook his head, unable to understand any of it. He bit back a frustrated sob.

Larry the vulture, who had been startled by the explosion and flown away, now returned. He flew overhead and winged his way back to his familiar perch on the jeep's roll bar and landed, presiding over them, as always.

Waiting.

Peter sighed heavily, slowly stood up, grabbed a shovel and carefully counted out his paces. When he reached his goal, he quickly dug down into the sand and pulled out a small bag and a large canteen. He brought the items back and shook the container so that Hutch could hear the water sloshing. "This'll only keep one person alive long enough to walk outta this desert. There's a map and a compass in here too." He dropped the items on the rickety table.

The blond only had the energy to watch as Bench next went to the jeep, removed the sparkplugs and smashed them with a pair of stones, to further disable the vehicle. He picked up the pistol and dismantled it, throwing the parts in different directions into the surrounding desert. He grabbed the rifle.

The bone-weary, thoroughly confused detective slowly climbed to his feet. "So we weren't out of supplies after all… why? Why are you doing this?" Hutch waved his hands to encompass the whole site. "Why all of this insanity? WHY?"

Peter gave him a world-weary smile. "I've known for a long time that there was no gold in that mine. I've just been waiting for someone to come along. It could have been anyone. But it was you, _rich boy_. It was purely random. I'm a loser. I've been a loser my whole life. I never had an even break and I wasn't born with a silver spoon in my mouth, like you. I've had to work, grub and slave for everything. Over 20 years of someone else running the game, pulling the strings. But this time, I'm in control. I pull the strings. I run the game. Now, there's just one game left for us to play. I'm gonna put this rifle down between us and take a few steps back. And on the count of three, we run for it. Whoever gets the gun, gets the food and water. The bonus is that the winner gets to kill the loser."

Bench set the gun down and slowly walked backwards, away from the rifle.

Hutch, driven to near madness from his ordeals, knew that this was his last chance to be free of Peter. He lunged at Bench and knocked him backwards -clean off his feet- and to the ground. The furious detective hammered at the man's face with his fists, rage giving him the strength of a berserker. "NO! No games! No more!" His fists punctuated each word.

Bench fought back just as hard, latched his fingers around the enraged detective's neck, squeezing tightly. His teeth gritted in a grim facsimile of a smile.

Hutch's air was slowly being cut off. His punches started to lose their speed and strength. And despite the fact that he was on top on Peter, spots formed before his eyes and began to checkerboard across his vision. He groped off to the side and his questing fingers found a large rock. He grabbed it, lifted it over his head and slammed it down, towards Bench, who barely managed to yank his head out of the way of the stone.

Hutch lifted the rock again, all reason had left him and he was determined to smash the mad man's skull into a bloody pulp.

The prospector lost his grip on the blond's sweaty neck. As he struggled to regain his hold on the naked skin, he taunted the man above him. "Go ahead, do it! Go ahead and kill me! You kill me and I win. You don't kill me, I kill you! You'll be the big loser this time _rich boy_!" He broke out into mad laughter. "I knew I could drive you to murder! I knew it! I win! I'm better a better man than you are!" He grinned up at his tormented captive as he latched his hands and fingers back onto the detective's neck and squeezed hard.

Hutch shrieked wordlessly as he slammed the rock down towards Peter's face.

Larry –perhaps sensing that this was a life or death struggle- fluttered down from his perch to the ground and hopped towards the fighting men. He waddled and hopped, his wings slightly outstretched for balance as he moved nearer to the combatants.

And a long awaited meal.

**TBC**


	8. Chapter 8

Hi all,

This is the last chapter. No warnings in this one. I've tried for over a year to come up with a better ending, but still haven't found one that works any better than the one I have. I hope it works for all of you. _(fingers crossed)._

**Chapter 8**

_Mohave desert, day 15_

Starsky knew this truly was the last day he would have use of the helicopter. He would have to hire someone else to guide him as he continued his search. He was already paying for the use of the copter with his own money, just as he'd been for the last two days. It was expensive, but worth it to continue the search on his own since Fishborne had other work to attend to and was unable to come along. So today it was just him and the copter pilot, Ray Pyle.

The curly haired detective scanned the parched surface below him. It never ceased to amaze him that no matter how dry it was out here, that there was life. The desert somehow thrived despite adversity that climate forced on it. _Could Hutch do the same?_ Starsky briefly closed his eyes. _God, let him do the same_… He reopened them to scan the desiccated scenery. "Where are you partner?" A tap on his left shoulder interrupted him. "Yeah?" He said into the headset, keeping his eyes on the ground.

The pilot told him that they would soon have to return to base or risk running out of fuel.

Starsky kept searching the arid landscape below him as he remembered what others had told him. It was hopeless to keep searching after this much time. It was going to be a body retrieval now – if they ever found a body to retrieve, that is. The likelihood as someone as inexperienced in desert travel as Hutch was, to have survived this long without any supplies – was virtually unheard of.

The curly haired cop heartily wished that Kurt Jacobs and Sid Bryant were still alive so he could drop _them_ off in the desert without any supplies. He slowly shook his head. It was useless to wish revenge on the dead. A tap on his shoulder brought him back to the present. He turned to Pyle and gave him a brief questioning look before returning to his endless searching of the ground below them.

"We gotta turn back right now, detective or we won't have enough to make it to the airport." The headset slightly mechanized the voice of the pilot, making him seem a little less human.

Starsky stopped looking at the parched terrain long enough to look at the man full in the face.

The portion of the face beneath the large aviator sunglasses had lines of concern on it. Ray spoke, "I know a guy, and I'll give him a call tonight and see if he can help you tomorrow or the next day, okay?" The guy sounded doubtful.

"Yeah, sure." Starsky was aware with as much as this was costing him, he'd have to hock to Torino soon. But it wasn't the cost that bothered him, he'd spend every penny he had, go into debt for the rest of his life, he'd call in every favor, anything to find Hutch.

Logic prodded at him. What if the experts were correct? What if Hutch was dead? _'Then I find his body and bring him home.'_ Starsky silently vowed, a lump rose high in his throat and his heart quivered painfully at that prospect. It was the first time he admitted the very real possibility of Hutch's death. He swallowed hard and blinked rapidly.

His heart and mind went to war.

'_But he doesn't _feel_ dead…not yet. Don't go!'_ His heart cried out.

'_I'll return tomorrow, okay?' _His logic chided his softer organ.

'_But-_' The brunet's heart whimpered deep in his chest.

'_Tomorrow._' His logic firmly returned.

Starsky nodded, agreeing with his logical side. "Take us back to the airport." The words were devoid of the emotions, though they roiled wildly beneath the surface. Tomorrow offered a new day and another chance to find his friend. _Tomorrow was another day_.

The pilot deftly maneuvered the helicopter about and they ascended rapidly, heading back to the small area airport.

The curly haired detective resolutely stared straight ahead.

'_Look back! Just once,_' his heart begged. '_Please look back._'

Unable to ignore the silent plea, Starsky looked back in the direction they had just come and that's when he saw _something_. He quickly raised his binoculars, peering back at the rapidly shrinking _thing_ that had caught his eye.

A lone vulture pin wheeled in the sky, at nearly the same height as the helicopter was.

It was right out of an old Western movie. A cliché. But there it was, a flying signpost, riding thermals over a single, receding spot in the vast desert.

A sign that read _'something dead or near dying, directly below_.'

Starsky shifted his gaze down at the ground beneath the circling vulture. He refocused his binocular lens and there -a person waving his arms and running – staggering really- after them down the face of a sandy slope. Even with the field glasses, it was impossible to make out anything but a human figure, gender and features impossible to tell at the ever-growing distance. He could see when the individulal stumbled and fell to the ground. "Turn back!" He swatted Ray in the arm to get the pilot's attention. "Turn around!"

"Detective, we don't have enough fuel to-" Ray gulped as he found himself looking down black muzzle of a Beretta pointing at him. "Where to, sir?" He squeaked.

"Back there! Land as close as you can to that big rock formation." Starsky directed as he yelled into the mic.

The skids scarcely touched down and the detective was out of the cockpit and bolting to the prone figure.

Pilot Ray Pyle finally saw what the detective had already spotted and quickly radioed for assistance and more fuel. Given the circumstances, he completely forgave getting hijacked.

The brunet scrambled toward the fallen person. The person's clothing was in tatters and all of the exposed skin was sunburned. The facedown individual had sun bleached white-blond hair. Starsky's heart was in his throat as he dropped to his knees next to the prone figure.

"Hutch!" He carefully turned his partner over and pulled him close, hugging the hot, limp body to his chest, unconsciously he closed his eyes and rocked the tall blond.

Feeling the living weight of his long missing friend in his arms was bliss, but Starsky was aware that his partner was in dire need of help. The big blond was far too hot, far too red to be anywhere near healthy. He briskly ran his hands over his partner's body, feeling for injuries and finding drum tight skin and ribs that poked out too far out. Remembering what one of the S&R people had told him about testing for dehydration, Starsky gently pinched and tugged up on a bit of skin and released. It stayed tented for several long seconds before slowly smoothing out. Not a good sign.

Further searching revealed a myriad of injuries and signs of recent restraint. The deep purple bruises, in the shape of fingers and scabbed over ligature marks on Hutch's throat, all silently screamed captivity and torture to Starsky. Similar bruises and marks bracketed the blond's wrists. The brunet looked towards his partner's feet and glimpsed corresponding marks marring the exposed ankles above the tattered hiking shoes.

Starsky physically ached at the notion that not only had Hutch been mugged and abandoned in the desert, he had been brutalized and abused as well. He clutched his partner closer to his chest; the limp body began to tense as Hutch began to come around.

"Ray! Bring me some water! Hurry!" The brunet carefully brushed back at the drooping blond forelock, avoiding –as best he could – touching the sun-scorched skin. What skin hadn't been covered, was lobster red. "Hutch? Buddy? Can ya hear me? Hmm?"

The lanky blond shuddered, limbs twitched and jerked as consciousness returned.

A fist weakly flailed out, narrowly missing Starsky's face. "Easy Hutch, s'me… s'okay now. I'm here, right here." He itched to brush his knuckles over his parched friend's feverish and burned face, but wavered, agonizing over whether the touch would help or harm. His hand hung –momentarily undecided- in midair while he quickly debated his next move.

The other fist struck out and only excellent reflexes kept Starsky from a solid pop on the chin. "Whoa! Easy there slugger." He looked around for the pilot. "Where the hell's that water?!"

Ray ran over and dropped to his knees next to the detectives. "Here," He handed the canteen to Starsky. "I found Peter Bench is just over there, about fifty feet away, on a travois. Looks like your friend dragged him here from Bench's property. Wonder what the hell happened to 'em?"

"Bench? The prospector?" Starsky asked distractedly as he repositioned his partner in his arms to give him water. He tipped the canteen up and water dribbled out on to his partner's dry, cracked lips. "He alive?" He never looked up from his friend's face.

"Yeah, just barely, he's much worse off than your partner. I radioed, help's on the way. I'll go see to Peter. These two have been through hell, I wonder what the hell happened?" The pilot, seeing that he wasn't going to get a response from the Bay City detective, got to his feet and trotted to the other desperate soul. Answers would have to wait.

Starsky barely registered when the pilot left to tend the other man. His whole being was wrapped up in taking care of his friend – nothing else was important. He adjusted the blond head in the crook of his arm and tipped more fluid onto the cracked and bleeding, parched lips.

Hutch's whole body trembled at the touch of the water and he weakly pursed his lips, begging for more. His swollen tongue peeked out, seeking moisture.

Starsky felt a knot surge violently up into his throat. He carefully tilted the canteen again, the touch of the fluid on the blond's lips this time invoked a frenzy of movement as Hutch grappled for control of the container. The brief struggle and some spilled water brought the abused and dehydrated man closer to full consciousness.

Light blue gaze darted about, unfocused. "More?" The sound was cracked and every bit as dry as the terrain that surrounded them. The eyelids slid shut.

"Sure," Starsky gave his partner a few more sips of the life-giving fluid. "Easy, Hutch, slow…" he cautioned as his friend again grabbed for the container. "Easy, easy, easy." After several minutes of this, Starsky reluctantly pulled the canteen away and set it aside. He tore part of his shirt off and folded the rag and wet it. He carefully patted the sunburned face, avoiding rubbing so as not to further aggravate the burned tissue.

After a few moments of this, Hutch's lids opened again, closing briefly, absorbing the coolness of the cloth. "Feels good." His eyes popped open and locked onto Starsky's face. The blond stared for a long while; confusion slowly filled his face, "S-Starsk?"

A broad Cheshire lit up the swarthy man's face "Yeah, s'me."

Hutch began to laugh. It was weak and raspy, but it was a laugh.

The brunet joined in as joy suffused him. He had been ready to give up and stop searching for the day. If he hadn't looked back, he would have missed his friend. But right now, none of that mattered. What mattered was Hutch was alive and laughing in his arms. It was like having all of his Christmases and birthdays all at once. He laughed until his ribs ached.

Hutch kept laughing too, only his laughter slowly turned and became odd.

Starsky immediately picked up on it. "Hutch?" Worry kicked in as his partner went on giggling and chortling in a most absurd manner. "Hutch, what-"

"No gold… no water…no guns… no games!" The dehydrated man hysterically sang/giggled the words. "There's no gold in them thar hills! No gun! I broke it… smaaaashed it. Monster mashed that gun!" Hutch lilted. "I did the mash, I did the monster mash!" He hiccupped and laughed harder.

Starsky was appalled and concerned, he gently -but firmly- shook his madly laughing friend. "Hutch! Stop it!" He shook the tall blond again as the chuckles slowly died and the hysteria turned to tears so fierce that they shook the long, thin frame.

Hutch tilted his body towards his best friend, seeking comfort. "Starsk." He sobbed the word.

Instinctively, the brunet tucked his friend in closer, gently rocking him as he hugged the weeping man, carefully ghosting his free hand over his friend's shaking form, needing to touch, but not wanting to hurt him. Needing –desperately needing- to take away the fear and pain. He carded his fingers through the fine blond strands.

"Aw, babe…" Starsky leaned forward and mantled his friend, like a hawk does to its prey, protecting Hutch from the sun and from the world, with his body. Quietly offering his partner a safe harbor.

With rapidly fading consciousness, Hutch did let go, giving himself over to the care and compassion that wafted off Starsky in nearly visible waves. It was safe to let go now. He was safe. The blond sobbed loudly, but no tears fell from the dehydrated eyes.

The curly-haired detective felt a sharp pain in his chest at the sight of the dry crying and held on tighter as the sobs slowed and quieted. He continued to tenderly rock the thin and battered body. Crooning softly to his injured friend, not knowing or caring what he said, anything to let Hutch know that he was protected and cared for.

Starsky sensed -more than felt- when Hutch slipped fully into an exhausted sleep and he was glad of it. The blond would be out of pain for now. He kept his partner in his lap. The sand was hotter than he was and he settled in to wait for the rescuers. And to ponder the evilness that Hutch had obviously endured during his 15 days of being in the desert.

High above them, Larry the vulture flew in slow, expectant, pin wheeling circles.

XXXX

Eureka Hospital 

Hutch stared out the window of the hospital to the arid landscape outside his room. He would be able to go home in a couple more days. The outer injuries were fading, but the internal ones would take much longer to heal. He sighed heavily and threaded his fingers through his hair. He would get through this, just as he had gotten through his kidnapping and forced heroin addiction.

Being tied up and forced to do things he didn't want to do, was giving him flashbacks to that other dark time in his life. His nightmares were twisted compositions of his forced addiction and this new one. They paralleled. Being held prisoner and tortured by men with a point to make, seemed to be a reoccurring theme in his life. One he dearly hoped was never going to happen again.

Peter Bench was alive, the damage from fighting with Hutch was minimal. The damage wrought by the sun, the effects of dehydration, and years alone in the desert, were far worse. Bench was already paying for his crimes, no trial required.

The prospector had completely lost his mind when Sheriff Robert Fishborne informed him – after Rob had investigated the scene- that Bench's mine had gold in it after all. Part of the ceiling of the mine had collapsed sometime after Hutch had dragged the injured prospector away, exposing the vein.

Upon hearing that, and knowing that he had committed enough crimes that he would be put away for a very long time, Bench had completely lost whatever tenuous grip he had had on reality. If the psych doctors were to be believed, Peter Bench would never be able to be released.

It was also unlikely that Peter would even stand trial. However if he did ever mentally recovered enough, Hutch intended to see that the man was prosecuted to the fullest letter of the law. The blond twitched the thin curtain back into place and looked over to the bed at his sleeping partner.

Just knowing that the mad man was locked away and would likely never be free to get to his precious gold - would suffice. He'd consider it justice served. It reminded Hutch about the myth about the man who was doomed for all eternity to have a banquet inches away from him, to see the food, to smell it and to never, ever have a single morsel. It was fitting.

Hutch hadn't told Starsky the whole story. His partner of course had been there when he'd given his statement to the local authorities. But he just wasn't ready to give Starsky all the details. He'd needed some time to recover from his ordeal, to decompress. When the walls started to close in, or when his nightmares turned the blankets into ropes that bound his hands and feet, he knew that his best friend would be there to talk him out of it, unbind him and bring light to the darkness.

The blond detective walked over to his friend - who had fallen asleep watching TV - and rearranged a fallen curl. It was good to have friends, and there was no better friend to be found then David Michael Starsky.

A dark blue eye opened and peered up at him. No words were needed. Starsky sat up and patted the mattress.

Hutch nodded. It was time to talk.

**The End**


End file.
